Hair of the Dog
by e-pony
Summary: A little drunken banter snippet in which Doyle discovers the cure for hangover.


Just a little drunken banter between the lads, in the very early morning after the very, very late night before. This is a PWP snippet; so don't go looking for what isn't there.

Special thanks to M. for advice and the beta! Ta, mate!

_Characters from "The Professionals" are the property of Mark-1 Productions Ltd. I am simply borrowing them temporarily – without fraudulent intent or anticipation of monetary gain._

**Hair of the Dog**

**By e-pony**

"Oh, me achin' head," Doyle groaned, cradling the offending body part in visibly trembling hands.

Bodie glanced at the miserable figure of his partner sprawled gracelessly across the overstuffed settee and shook his head. "Ah, the age-old complaint of the foolishly intemperate," he observed sagely.

"Followed by the famous_ **last **_words of the pompous-arsed partner!"

Bodie grinned good-naturedly and ignored the empty threat. He knew a world-class hangover when he saw one. After all, he had suffered through more than a few himself in his rather chequered career. So, instead of snapping out a sharp retort, he simply beamed a bright smile in Doyle's direction and continued his idle chatter. "Reckon the party kept on awhile after I left, eh?"

The answering silence spoke volumes.

But Bodie wasn't one to be put off for long. "Back in a jiff, mate," he called over his shoulder as he trotted into his partner's kitchen. A few minutes later, he re-emerged carrying two steaming coffee cups and a small bottle of paracetamol.

"Here." Bodie prodded his prone companion with the toe of a stylishly booted foot.

Squinting, Doyle peered out blearily from between his protecting fingers. "Whazzat?"

"Breakfast of champions, sunshine: black coffee and paracetamol."

"Ugh…."

"Unless you'd prefer something else – hair of the dog that bit you, maybe?" Bodie paused for emphasis, before soldiering on in his best "concerned Cowley" voice. "Och! A wee nip of Scotch will soon put you right, laddie."

"Oi, Bodie!" Doyle chortled in spite of himself – and to his stomach's chagrin. "No. No Scotch… please! Don't think I could keep it down just now." He swallowed convulsively. "'Sides, was the gin that mauled me, mate – a right nasty cur when let off 'is leash, 'e is."

"Bit too stingy with the tonic mixer last night, eh?"

"What tonic?"

"Oh, Ray, old son," Bodie grimaced sympathetically, shaking his head once again.

He watched quietly while Doyle helped himself to two tablets and washed them down with a quick gulp of hot, bitter coffee. Then, satisfied that he'd administered basic triage, the ex-merc launched his primary diversionary tactic. "D'you ever chat up that bird?"

"Huh?" Doyle's face scrunched into a puzzled frown and then relaxed as comprehension dawned. "The blonde? Nah. She left before I ever had the chance." He paused to sip at his coffee before continuing. "Did score last night, though. Least I _**think**_ I did. Beth… no, Becca. That's it!"

A mischievous smile flirted with the corners of Bodie's mouth. "And she's gone already?" he exclaimed in feigned surprise. "What happened? No! Don't tell me…. She got one good look at that ugly mug of yours in the daylight and scarpered."

"Ha-ha. Sod off, funny man," Doyle sniped back. "She just wasn't my type."

"Eh?" Bodie turned his head sharply, eyebrows climbing; then a sly gleam lit his eyes, and he smiled knowingly. "Oh, I _**see**_. You got a good look at _**her**_ face in the light of day and…."

"Bodie! I said, **bugger off**!" Doyle winced as his throbbing head protested the vehemence of his own reply. He shifted a bit on the settee and, after a few moments, seemed to regain his equilibrium. "'Sides I reckon it wasn't her face I was interested in last night," he said finally, a trace of roguish humour creeping into his voice.

But Bodie was a man on a mission and not so easily deterred. "Raymond, Raymond!" He shook his head sorrowfully and slumped dramatically into the chair behind him. "'Tis true what they say, 'Many a true love dies abornin', when the drunkard sobers in the mornin'.'"

"Keats?" Doyle asked sceptically.

"Not nearly so lofty nor so famous. But a capital chap nonetheless."

"With an ear for truisms, obviously."

"Very pragmatic, to say the least."

"And very _**priapismic**_?"Doyle raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Now, Ray," Bodie chided gently. "Is that any way to speak of a literary genius? S'got a reputation with the birds for being a most **_upright_ **lad, if I do say so m'self."

"My point exactly, mate!"

Bodie's rejoinder was lost in a low-throated chuckle.

Laughing himself, Doyle sank back down into the comfort of the settee. _Hair of the dog be_ _damned!_ he thought. After all, the best cure for a bloody hangover was right here – sprawled contentedly in Doyle's easy chair, shaking his head and flashing his brightest Bodie grin.

"You berk," Doyle muttered fondly as his eyelids shuttered closed.

"G'night, yourself, sunshine," said Bodie.


End file.
